


That Old Redemption Story

by sigarilyo (descartes)



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mormonism, One Night Stands, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:18:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/descartes/pseuds/sigarilyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming back isn't the same as coming home. The AU where David Archuleta was never on American Idol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Old Redemption Story

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2008 as a part of an ambitious rockstar-and-missionary-AU; unfortunately this short excerpt which I originally posted on Livejournal was the only bit I ever finished :|

  


>   
> _"And the two judges at the table for that first stadium audition -- you know, we were in a row of four people._
> 
>  _And, each of us stepped out and sang like 20 seconds. And then they said, you know, unfortunately, none of you have what we're looking for. Thanks for coming out, though. And I was like, oh, OK. Well, that was fun, I guess. Go back home now."_  
>  ~ David Archuleta, _Larry King Live_ , July 23, 2008

   


You wake up in the morning, say your prayers, wash your face, comb your hair, button your shirt and are halfway through knotting your tie before you realize you're not at the mission anymore. At night, you lay atop the covers of your too-soft bed and listen to the clock _tick tick tick_ four seconds slower than your heartbeat.

Your parents and the counselors at church keep saying that the alienation will pass. You imagine it: a switch in your brain in the off position. Click. Let there be light. The world is right side up again.

It's been thirty-three days since you stepped into your dad's arms at the airport, freezing minutely before hugging back, the reunion of father and son, a man greeting a-boy-who-is-now-a-man. You know this because you faithfully cross out the dates as they come in a calendar you keep in your bedside drawer.

   


Your parents are getting worried, or maybe they've grown tired of you sitting around the house in your dad's old khakis, because Claudia calls you and invites you to come up to San Diego: "I want to see my doofus little brother."

"I'm not little!" you protest, but you're already wondering when you can fly out to see her.

Claudia has three roommates, all of them students at UCSD. They smile and flip their hair a lot, and one of them kisses you, a quick peck on the cheek, when you're introduced.

She drags you to parks and malls and parties, but mostly, you curl up on the fold-out couch and watch cartoons while pretending not to hear Claudia's friends talk about her "hot" and "utterly snackable" brother in the other rooms.

The night before you have to go back to Utah, Claudia puts her hands on her hips and tells you, "You are going out someplace fun and young." Since she has her mom-face on and printouts from Mapquest in her fist, you slick your hair up with gel and promise her you're actually going to a club and not brood in a coffee shop somewhere.

As you walk down the street, you can feel her eyes boring into you from the cab in the corner, making sure you don't bolt for the nearest Royal Thai Cuisine.

You meet him at the first bar Claudia's encircled on her map. The guy at the entrance is too busy smoking to glance at your expired driver's license. Inside, the rock music blasting from the speakers is near-inaudible under the noise of people talking and dancing and throwing back drinks under the flash of strobe lights. It's overwhelming, your eyes and ears and skin assaulted all at once and when a woman apparently wearing nothing but glitter grabs your hand and reels you into the crowd, you don't resist.

You've been warned about this by your counselor, of a returned missionary's craving for intimacy after two years of lacking meaningful human contact. _Skin hunger_ , he called it. The phrase sounded absurd in the sunny brightness of the chapel, but trapped between the glittering woman and a man who's shouting along to the music, _hunger_ doesn't even begin to describe the _nownownow_ screaming its way out of your every pore.

The man's eyelids are smudged with black, his pupils impossibly dilated, and he's mouthing his way up your neck and this is crazy, you're in public, and the man says, _isn't it fantastic?_

You're about two seconds from coming right here, on the dance floor in front of strangers, just from the heady taste of this man's sweat when he whispers, "What's your name?"

 _Elder Archuleta_ comes to your lips, but this is America, not Hong Kong, and you're learning to not be that person anymore. "David," you say, gasping when he brushes his fingers along the line of your jeans. "How about you?"

"David," he replies, laughing, and you don't know if he's mimicking you or if you've missed something, more than just the coincidence of a name.

He tugs your belt loops, _come with me_ , and you don't even hesitate.

   


David has curious hands that slide up and down your skin, tracing the invisible lines connecting the moles that pepper your back. His hair is soft when it curls behind his ears, but rough when it leaves large swathes of pink across your thighs.

He keeps finding corners in your body you didn't know you have and making them burn hotter and brighter than you thought possible. Then again, it's been so long: they might have already been there, waiting patiently for him to seek them out.

   


You wake up alone in an unfamiliar place. No, not unfamiliar. You remember staring at the patterns on the bed sheet while you were on your knees last night. David fumbling with both your fly and his keycard. You knocking the telephone from the nightstand with an elbow and apologizing to it, to David, to the air, to anyone who would listen to your breathy _sorry_.

Your clothes have been folded and placed on a chair. You put on your underwear, shivering when the cold air curled around your ankles, and start checking your pockets for the directions back to Claudia's place.

The door to the bathroom opens in a cloud of steam. David pads out in a damp shirt that clings to his chest. The thought floats up, _I licked his nipples with my tongue_ , and you must've made a noise, because he looks at you.

"You're leaving," he says. It's not a question.

There's nothing you can say to that, so you dip your head slightly and ask if you can use the bathroom, and he says with a dismissive shrug, _yeah_.

The bathroom is sweltering with humidity and used towels. You take a few minutes to stow away your things in a relatively dry spot, find a bottle of hotel shampoo and figure out how the shower worked.

Then you sit on the toilet and cry, gasping sobs stifled by your shaking hand. _I tried so hard_ , you think.

David's staring out the window - a small parting in the drawn curtains, a sliver of sky - when you return to the bedroom. You wonder if he's talking to himself, but, no, he's on his cellphone with someone. "I'm not asking him to— no, he doesn't have one, I checked— look, mind your own goddamn business!" he snaps, a vicious whisper that has you edging away towards the wall. In the sunlight, stripped of the haze of arousal, he's the most dangerous man you've ever met. You hurriedly slip on your sneakers, not bothering with your socks, and murmur an inaudible goodbye.

The door clicks shut behind you, the sound as loud as someone slamming their gate in your face seconds after they see the Bible in your hands. You start running.

   


The apartment is empty when you let yourself in, so you throw last night's clothes into the basket and collapse into bed. Claudia shakes you awake at noon, and you have never been gladder that you always wear a shirt before going to sleep. The swollen hickeys on your shoulder might be hard to explain away.

"So, had any fun?" she asks over the lunch of leftover Chinese takeout.

You shrug. "It was nice." In your lap, your thumb is rubbing the bruises hidden in the hollow of your wrist.

She helps you pack your suitcase, stuffing gifts for the family back home in the corners not occupied by your new t-shirts. The drive to the airport is filled with her chatter, of friends and classes and her part-time job and the boys she keeps on meeting at school. You laugh and slyly offer to introduce her to your fellow missionaries.

Claudia punches your arm, saying, "I am not ready for my little brother being my matchmaker!" You laugh even harder.

   


Something changes in you after San Diego, because your mom and dad no longer tiptoe around you or have hushed conversations that abruptly go silent in your presence.

You let them accept invitations to dinner with nice Mormon girls and their parents. Wearing your best coat and tie, you answer questions about your mission politely over pot roast and steamed vegetables. After dessert, you sit on the couch with the girl and listen to her talk about herself while the adults stay in the kitchen and talk about you.

The third girl you meet, Kate, is studying to become a veterinarian and makes her own mix CDs. She has you listening to one. It's filled with radio hits by people you've never even heard of, and you find yourself drifting off, when the next track starts playing. The guitar intro is sure, but the singer's voice is stronger, gliding over the notes with an ease that tugs at you. Your eyes fly open.

"Who is that?"

Kate beamed. "Oh, that's David Cook! If you remember, he, like, won American Idol four years ago. He played the E Center last year. I got to meet him, see, here's his autograph— "

You take the CD case she shows you, making appropriately impressed noises when she tells the story of how David Cook was really nice and had hugged her when she asked.

You don't tell her, _I had sex with him in his hotel room last month. He liked it when I kissed the tattoo under his arm and dug my fingernails into his hips. His orgasm sounded like a dying glory note at the end of a song._

   


You trudge after your mom in the grocery store, pushing the cart while she consulted her shopping list. The piped-in music from the store P.A. is off-key. After the fifth time your mom looked up from comparing apples to smile at you, you realize you've been humming the song in a frustrated attempt at correction.

She simply says, "I've missed your voice."


End file.
